


Curled Leaves Triste

by jaybyrds



Category: Original Work
Genre: Flora Fauna, Original World, plant people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybyrds/pseuds/jaybyrds
Summary: A plant person's life from (almost) beginning to end. Being a custodian of the worlds largest, god-protected nature preserve isn't quite as nice as it sounds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While this is meant to be part of a larger world, it's the only thing I have written for it, and as a result some of it may be confusing. I apologize for that, but hope you enjoy it anyway. It was also written a decent bit of time ago in 2015 and edited in 2016, if that matters.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> The Verdant Garden is a goddess.  
> The Beacon, also known as the Illuminating Beacon, is the god of death.

Curled Leaves Triste woke up early. Pink-tinged daylight shone in through the branches of the Curled Leaves Tree, throwing dappled shadows across the knotted wood of the First Bloomed's bedroom. He rolled out of the soft, springy bloom that acted as his bed and stretched. The looming sense of dread he had left behind in sleep hit his taproot and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. He could hear the bustle of his Later Bloomed family down below, already awake.

He had things to get to, and he was already late if the Later Bloomeds were awake, but a moment spent on himself wasn't too much wasted, he thought. He tried to remember: Was it his day to lead a tour? No. He only had simple patrol duties today. Tomorrow was the tour. It was also not his day to worry about any offerings. He thought, anyway.  He hoped nothing important had slipped his mind.

Triste left his room and headed down the stairs. The big, main room of the Tree was swarming with vergarlets. They barely glanced up as he descended the stairs and headed out the door and onto the paths.

This part of the Fields was only for the vergarlets. Familial Trees lined the path, six of them in total. There were others elsewhere in the Fields; at least two in every biome. Vergarlets tended the whole of the Fields, the hundreds of acres it occupied, from the desert to the ocean to the forest that was partially Triste's.

He stuck to the back paths, and did not go near the main roads. Surely a tourist would ask him questions, and that wasn't his job that day. Besides, where there were tourists, there were tourists breaking rules, and he had seen the dirt hounds erupt from the ground enough times to last a lifetime. He didn't know why they acted the way they did sometimes. The rules were written clearly at every entrance to the Fields of Reverence. Not for fact, of course. He didn't actually know how to read. But he had heard enough people speak them aloud that he was fairly sure they stated clearly that to break any of the rules was to forfeit your life.

He knew where every Curled Leaves tree was located in the Fields. He had had thirty years to memorize them, after all. He checked a fair few of them today. He didn't know why. None of them had ever been sick. They'd disappeared sometimes, to be replaced with a new, slightly prettier variety, sure, but none of them had taken ill.

That was his job, though. One he had never asked for, but his nonetheless. First Bloomed of the Curled Leaves. By choice or not.

"Heyyyy Triste," a voice interrupted. He turned. Off the path, leaning across a low branch that overlooked a small pond, was Tall Stem Lorne. He knew her enough to know her name, but not much else. She said, "You look tense. You should take a break."

"I can't," he said. He'd only just started his daily walk. "How about you join me for my rounds, instead?"

She threw her head back and laughed. Her green complexion darkened momentarily. "Oh, no," she said when she caught her breath. The chlorophyll left her cheeks. "No, no."

She was Later Bloomed, of course. They lazed around all they liked, never helping, just living in the Fields and doing whatever they pleased. Not once had a Later Bloomed, even one of his own siblings, ever helped him out. They'd say, "I didn't bloom twenty-seventh to go put in a fountain. Who cares if it's from the Starlit Isles? We see plenty of stars here. Is it really that special?"

If they were anything, it was useless. Completely the opposite of Triste. He was responsible. He'd never taken a day off in twenty years. He did what he had to do. He...

Was very tired, he remembered, waving a goodbye to Lorne. He didn't show it, knowing she wouldn't care. The Fields of Reverence were his home, and they were beautiful, and magnificent, and amazing, as anything so lovingly tended by the Verdant Garden would be. But being constantly bombarded by that kind of beauty was exhausting.

First Bloomed. Sometimes, more than he'd ever like to admit, he wished he was twenty-seventh Bloomed. Even second Bloomed. He could leave, then, visit the Starlit Isles himself, or any of the places the people he had ever talked to were from.

But he couldn't. It's as simple as that, he told himself, at an edge of the forest, where it turned abruptly from woodland to desert. That was, at least, fresher to his eyes. He stayed there for a moment. Maybe he'd visit Needle Sharp Hellor later in the day, just for a change of pace. He hadn't seen her in awhile, after all. It'd be nice to check on her.

He shook himself out of his daydreams. Work, he told himself. Come on. You have things to do. Too many things, and yet none at all

* * *

Curled Leaves Triste lost track of the days. They blurred and ran together, year after year. The seasons, mild as they were in the Fields, go by and by and by and then, one day, when he had just exited his familial tree and looked up, there were tiny buds decorating the branches of the Tree.

The sight of the Tree flowering sent a shock through him. Already? he thought, staring. He had never seen the tree in bloom, but he knew what it meant. The tree, all of the familial trees, only bloomed every fifty years. The Tall Stem tree, just next to his, was dotted with small buds as well. In the desert, in the Needle Sharp home was probably the same.

He shivered, suddenly nervous. He was nearly fifty years old. He knew what that meant, too. He wondered if any of the others were as nervous as he was.

They're only buds, though, and tiny. He had months still before they bloomed. Months and months yet.

Months that crawl and fly by at the same time. He tracked the process by the way the buds grew bigger and bigger, weighing down his home, making the branches creak at night. His nerves grew and creaked with them. The buds would bloom soon, and then there'd ten years left of his life. The thought made him tired. Sooner than not, everything would end.

All at once the time caught him up and deposited him in the Great Blooming. No more time to wait. No more anxiety over what would happen. It was happening, now, now, and

Great Blooming, indeed. The sight was incredible. More vergarlets than he'd seen in years lined the paths, First Blooms and Later Blooms alike, because someone had to take care of the new Later Blooms, after all. Even some of the ones who had left had come back. The forest filled with the buzzing murmurs of hundreds of vergarlets.

High, high above, the Curled Leaves Tree hung still. It was barely swaying, weighed down heavily with the full-grown buds that were just beginning to open. On his right Triste heard a roared cheer as a Tree's blooms began to open. He rocked forward and scanned his own tree for the First.

He saw it. They're all furling open, but one, almost in the center of the boughs of the Tree, was faster. It was opening quickly, and he rushed forward, arms outstretched. The flower opened and dipped forward, the bundle in it sliding off and then tumbling, down, into Triste's hands. The sounds around him dimmed as he stared down at the sprout in his hands. Vaguely he could hear his siblings behind him raising a cheer and moving past him, to catch the next ones blooming and falling.

It was just a baby. Just a tiny, tiny sprout. Its leaves hadn't even unwrapped yet. It stared up at him, confused, squinting in the bright light of day. Just a sprout. His sprout. His child. His own child, his own First Bloomed, who will grow up to take his place.

A pang shot through him. He wondered if it would enjoy being First Bloomed. He hoped, hoped hard in his taproot, that it would. He tucked it closer to his stem and moved back, away from the tree, watching his siblings catch the Later Blooms, watching the forty-nine other Curled Leaves sprouts be bloomed.

He won't know them. Only this one, the first, would be his. His siblings would take care of the rest. That's the way it was done. The Later Blooms would choose their own life. Maybe they'd leave the Fields, travel the world. See things he never would. He hoped they would be happy.

"It's alright," he whispered to the sprout in his arms. "Everything's fine. Don't worry, I've got you."

Around him he could hear more shouts, the sounds of the Blooming, but he paid no attention.

* * *

Curled Leaves Triste held Curled Leaves Vivali up to examine a tree. "This is one of ours," he said. Vivali squirmed in his arms.

"Because its leaves are curled!" she exclaimed, reaching out tiny fingers to pat a branch. "Curled Leaves Tree!" she crowed, like it was a name. Her hand rustled the furled leaves.

"That's right. This entire part of the forest is ours, really, but we share with the others for the rest."

"It's all mixed," Vivali said importantly, parroting something he'd said earlier.

"Yes, very good," he agreed. "It used to all be very clear what everything was, I hear. But that was years and years ago. Now there are Tall Stem trees and plants here, and Broad Leaves, too."

"And Curled Leaves Tree has siblings in the other families places too," Vivali chirped, squirming in his arms until he put her down. She trotted past him and into a patch of sun. Her leaves spread and she turned her face into the light. After a moment, Triste joined her. The sun felt amazing. He can't remember the last time he'd taken a break to just bask. He realized how tired he was as he began to photosynthesize.

Fine for him. He was fully grown, after all, but Vivali was still so young, only a year old. She needed more energy than him. He said, "You're learning fast, Vivali. How about we take a detour to the pond?" She squealed in response, and he had to practically run to keep up with her.

The pond was the most popular place in this part of the Fields of Reverence, evident by the sheer amount of vergarlets hanging around, dangling their roots in the water and catching rays. Vivali pressed her hand into Triste's and pulled him toward the water.

Familiar faces passed him, blending together like a palette an artistic visitor would bring. He saw Tall Stems and Color Splasheds, and even his own Curled Leaves. Vivali waved to her siblings, and Triste offered a small smile at them. They watched them pass, too fast for Triste to catch their expressions for more than a moment. He felt the smile slip off, and a knot of concern touched his taproot.

They reached the water. Vivali barreled forward, not stopping, and pulled them both into the water. They landed in the shallows with a splash, sending up a spray of water.

Vivali cackled a laugh, throwing her hands up and flinging drops of water. Triste laughed with her and caught her in his arms, pressing her to his stem. She squirmed and then leaned in, giggling. They stayed like that for a moment, Triste holding his sprout, both of them dripping water. His leaves spread, partly out of joy, partly to catch the sun.

In that wet, giggly moment, he felt like the last fifty one years of being First Bloomed had been entirely worth it to hold his sprout in his arms.

A shadow fell over them, blocking the sun. Triste looked up, still grinning. "Curled leaves Anella," he said, surprised.

"Curled Leaves Triste," she said back. Then she smiled too, and held out a hand to help him up. He took it and pulled himself and Vivali up.

"Why don't you go play?" he suggested, and Vivali ran off immediately. He called loudly after her, "And be careful!" He and Anella watched her go, then moved away from the water, still in the sun.

They sat down together. "So, sister," Triste started, "when did you get back?"

"I've been here since the Great Blooming," she told him, flicking one of his leaves.

"No. Really?"

She looked at him for a moment. "You really didn't notice me," she said. It wasn't a question. She shook her head. The leaves that made up her hair rustled. "Of course you didn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He felt defensive suddenly. "I've been-"

 "Busy," she said with him, and then, alone, "You always are."

 A brief silence fell over them. Triste broke it. "What is it you want, Anella?"

"Nothing," she said. "I've just been hanging around. Taking care of the little Later Blooms. Helping the rest of our siblings with taking care of them."

"Oh." Triste felt a little silly. "How are they? ..The Later Blooms?"

"You could ask them yourself," Anella suggested. His expression must have twisted, because she said. "They're fine, for the most part."

"Most part?" The concern he had felt earlier creeped back on him again. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, Triste. Nothing, except.." She stopped, and looked at him, considering. She said, "They're sad. Lonely, a little. Confused, more than that."

"Why?" They had seemed alright. He hadn't interacted with the Later Blooms, but he had kept an eye on them. Just a little.

"Triste, you're their parent," Anella said, exasperated. "Their only parent. You have forty-nine other children, you know. I bet you don't even know their names."

"They're Later Blooms," Triste objected. "Vivali was First. That's how this works. How do you know all of this?"

"I talk to them. I see it on their faces. And.." She stopped, again. "It's how I felt. How a lot of us felt."

"I don't understand," Triste said, helpless.

Anella shook her head, looking out over the water. "I saw our parent, Hanor, and all the attention he paid to you. He never even looked at the rest of us. They told me I was second Bloomed, Triste. I didn't understand how being second was so much different than being First."

"But this is how it's been for hundreds of years," Triste said. Guilt edged his words. This was how his parent had raised him. How every other family had been raised.

"Look at them," Anella said. She jerked her head toward a group of tiny Curled Leaves. They were watching Triste and his sister, longing and wistfulness in their eyes. Some of them scattered when he turned to see them. Others ducked their heads and took fleeting looks back up. "You think they care about traditions?" Anella continued. "They just see you and their sister, and how much you love each other, and they wonder why they can't have that too."

"But the Later Blooms that are raising them," Triste said, still grasping at anything, anything.

"Not the same. It wasn't for me. They just.. There's something missing there. Most Later Blooms don't care. That's our flaw." She crooked a smile at him.

"What exactly are you asking me to do, Anella?" Triste asked finally, the words slow.

She opened her mouth to speak. A voice, calling her, interrupted. She glanced towards the voice, then back at Triste. Her voice became more urgent as she said, "You're only going to live another nine years. Don't let them spend the fifty after that wondering why you never even said hello to them. I'm asking as their kin, and yours. I'm asking because I'm still wondering." The voice called again and Anella rose to her feet. "I'm leaving," she said. "Me and Needle Sharp Zenko. One last hurrah before the wilting. See the cities. Other things. Before the end."

Triste turned wistful. "I'll never see a city."

The look she gave him verged on pitying. "No, I guess you won't." She turned. He watched her go.

Something built in his stem, pushed at his taproot, and pulled him to his roots. He shouted, louder than was necessary, "I'll see you! At the Beacon, I'll see you! And you'll tell me every last detail about those cities!"

She turned, walking backwards, and grinned. She shouted back, "Not if I see you first!"

That was the last time Triste saw Anella alive.

* * *

 It was evening when Triste and Vivali returned home. The rest of the family was already inside, as far as Triste could tell. Forty-nine tiny pairs of eyes latched onto them as they walked through the doorway.

For the first time, Triste really noticed the way they looked at him. Vivali bounded over immediately to her siblings, who parted readily for her. Triste crossed to the other side of the Tree, toward the staircase that would take him to his room. The feeling of their eyes on him didn't lessen. Instead of walking up the stairs, he turned and sat. He smiled at his family and their surprised faces.

"Who wants to hear a story?" Triste asked. Fifty sprouts leaned toward him.

* * *

 When he's wilting, he'll think back. He'll remember that moment, and more. He'll remember, and he won't regret.

* * *

 Ten pairs of little feet trot down the path behind him. Two hands are pressed into his. Vivali walks in front, pointing at things, telling her siblings what she's learned. Triste chimes in every now and then to add something she doesn't know or has forgotten. She absorbs the information readily and spits it back out at her siblings, delighted in teaching them, just as they're delighted to learn.

* * *

Triste talks to a visiting human family. The parents tell him much, trivia and tales he won't even remember a week later, but he always enjoys hearing news about the rest of the world. Nothing ever changes in the Fields. Vivali, three years old, chatters with the three adults' young children.

When they go back to work, Vivali is quiet. She looks at him contemplatively, and he thinks maybe she'll ask about the outside world again, maybe if she can go, but she doesn't. Instead, she calls him dad, where before she had always called him Triste.

He stumbles, almost falls, at the shock of it. She laughs, loud and gleeful, and by the end of the day fifty voices have called him dad.

* * *

One day, when his children are six, they swarm him. They force him into a lazy day, not even letting him step outside the Tree. It causes him anxiety, to not do anything, but they insist and throughout the day he sees them coming and going, taking turns doing his chores, while the others tell him stories they've made up.

They bring him gifts, too, things they've scavenged. Molted feathers, shiny rocks, blossoms. His children glow with happiness every time they gift him something and he can't help but reflect their joy.

His room feels fuller than it ever has after that night, and morning light shines on reminders of how lucky he is.

* * *

He can't breathe very well anymore. Speaking is hard, too, but he's sixty. There isn't anything he can do about it. His leaves felt drier, crumblier, but Vivali stroked them and didn't seem to notice. She smiled down at him, wobbly. Water glinted in her eyes.

He tried to speak, to tell her something, but the words failed him. She stepped back, and someone else took her place. Soon after, someone replaced him.

All fifty of his children crowded into the main room of the Curled Leaves Tree to say goodbye. They were so big now, fully grown. He could still remember when they were half his size, following him around the Fields. He remembered, too, when his parent has wilted. He had been the only one to say goodbye to Hanor.

Affection welled in his taproot. He wanted to tell them he loved them. Wanted to tell them he was sorry for going even a year not being their father, but the words wouldn't come. He mouthed them, instead, "I love you, I love you," over and over, until the murmur spread through his children.

"We love you too," Vivali said. Her voice hitched. He wanted to tell her it would be alright, but still he could not speak.

An hour later Curled Leaves Triste wilted.

"Took you long enough," Anella said.

* * *

Sharp Scented Jenyn struggles to lift the fountain into place. It's very fancy, full of parts that move as water passes through them. Consequently, it's very heavy. "A little help, please?" she begs a passerby, desperate.

"Sorry," they say. "Later Bloomed." They flash a grin and walk by faster. Jenyn swears loudly. The heavy stone fountain slips from her hands.

"Careful!" Another pair of hands catches the fountain and lowers it the rest of the way to the ground.

"Thank you," Jenyn gushes, relief coating her voice. "Thank you so much." She gets a closer look at the new arrival. Average height, spiraled leaves decorating his body and making up his hair. A Curled Leaves, but not Vivali.

"Not a problem," he says. "I'm Thorian. What's this for?"

"It's a gift to the Garden. From a city called..." She has to pause. "Cats Paw, I think."

Thorian looks it over, spins a water wheel, and then looks back up at her. "Cool. Aren't gifts for, ah.." He shrugs, looking a little helplessly at her.

Jenyn grins. "It's a gift to try and get a good harvest. I guess they're desperate."

"A bribe! That's right." He pats the fountain. "I remember."

"More of an offering," she chides, but snorts a laugh anyway. "If I don't break it before it's even installed, anyway."

"I'll help," he offers immediately.

She glances sidelong at him. "Aren't you Later Bloomed?"

"Sure. Thirty-fourth, if you want to be exact. But I saw how hard these things were. Let me help you out."

It's a first for her, a Later Bloomed offering to do any work, but she doesn't decline. Together they heft the fountain onto its base and into place. Thorian steps back.

"What happens now?" he asks as Jenyn adjusts the fountain minutely.

She steps back, too. "Well," she starts, "if the Garden hates it, nothing."

They wait. Moments later, the fountain gurgles and spouts water. The parts begin to turn in the current. Jenyn nods, satisfied, and she and Thorian look at each other.

"Happy harvest to Cats Paw," she says.

 


End file.
